


the consequences of oversleeping

by VagabondDiesel



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-06 01:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11590221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagabondDiesel/pseuds/VagabondDiesel
Summary: He had always done his best to avoid them despite Impa’s guidance to the contrary. At one point he had attempted to remove all of the old photographs and data from the Sheikah Slate at his hip but it defied his intrusion, so he made a habit of studiously avoiding them. But despite his best efforts there were times when they could not be escaped, times when the slumbering hero awoke to force himself upon his consciousness.He couldn't help but wonder how long he would continue to be himself. Would the ancient hero rise one day, banishing him to the incorporeal prison he rested in now? Was he fated to become nothing more than a specter, fighting tooth and nail for small moments of coherence, watching as a foreign mind manipulated his body?





	the consequences of oversleeping

      The sound of horseshoes striking cobblestones resonated against the vertical stone faces of the pass. It amplified and echoed through the chasm, making it sound as if it was a caravan and not a single rider passing through.   
      Bane ambled down the overgrown path at a trot with slackened reins and ears swinging, as if he were compensating for his rider’s lack of attentiveness.   
      The Hylian in the saddle was doing extraordinarily little to contribute to the ride, gripping the stallion’s girth with his thighs while rummaging through the contents of a rather abused looking satchel. At one point he had abandoned the reins entirely, wrapping them loosely about the pommel of the saddle so he could employ both arms in the task of reorganizing his supplies. His body swayed with every rolling step the stallion took, but he was a rider seasoned past the point where the repetitive motion would be enough to unbalance him. 

      Bane snorted and slowed as they approached a gigantic stone arch at the end of the chasm, eyeing the great blocks suspended above the path warily before deciding that he did not particularly like the look of them, even less the idea of passing beneath them.  
      The Hylian’s sorting reverie was broken when his stallion planted all four hooves in place and nickered unhappily, shaking his mane to signify his displeasure. With some annoyance, he set his satchel aside and flicked the reins with a muffled command, urging his mount to venture beneath the hated arch.   
      Perhaps it was a particularly malicious-looking structure, or perhaps Bane had chosen that moment to remember his feral heritage on the plains of Lindor, but regardless of his reasoning the horse refused to go any further, even attempting to turn to backtrack up the path they had just taken.   
      With a sigh, the young man slipped out of the saddle to lead his steed out of the ravine on foot. The arch loomed above them, seeming to be many times its actual size from the viewpoint directly underneath it. As they passed through its shadow, the mass of stone blocked out the sinking shape of the evening sun, grey stone darkening to black in contrast to the burnt orange rays fanning out from its silhouette. 

      The effect was captivating, stopping the Hylian in his tracks before he was even aware of it. In the next moment, a chill ran up his spine, filling him with mindless, roiling dread as he beheld the ancient structure. Whispers at the fringes of his consciousness rose in volume, clamoring for acknowledgement, demanding to be heard.   
      He sunk to his knees at the onslaught, the reins falling from clenched fists to dangle forgotten beneath the halter they were anchored to. The Hylian dug the heels of his palms against the lids of his closed eyes, trying to find something, anything to cling to before he was pulled beneath the influence of the mental barrage. 

      It was back. That foreign, shifting consciousness lurking in the recesses of his mind. Something had triggered him, rousing him from his deep slumber and now he fought for dominance with every shard of his willpower.   


      He.  
      Which one was he, exactly?   
      Who was the invader?   


      The Hylian gasped, frantically surveying his surroundings for an anchor, vision swimming as if he were drunk on Noble Pursuit. He finally managed to focus on his hands, or rather, what he wore over them. Leather gloves with dulled silver buckles, scuffed and scored from cycles of battle and exposure to the elements. There was a small hole in the outside seam of the thumb that had been needing mending for some time now. They were his gloves. Not the champion’s. 

      Despite this small victory, his lapse in concentration was enough to sway the battle in the other’s favor and the advantage was exploited relentlessly, driving him down beneath a torrent of unwanted emotions and memories. 

      “No...” the Hylian gasped, forcing his jaws apart to form the syllables. “No!” he repeated, the words laced with the hopeless fury of an opponent who already knew that he had been bested.   
      “No!” He was shouting now, but he could hardly hear himself.   
      “I don't want to see!” 

      It was too late to resist. Too late, too strong, too much… 

      The figures and faces of those long dead raced across his vision, laced with overwhelming grief that was not his to bear. Long golden hair, swaying with the wind. The curve of an avian beak. Glittering armor contrasted against bronze skin. Defined muscles rippling beneath stony hide. Ruby scales and molten bronze eyes. The champions must have gathered here once with their princess. With him. 

      He fought their echoed voices, willing their words to be lost to the wail of the void. Their faces began to jump between crisp focus and flickering distortion while their lips still moved, the conversation melting to senseless gibberish.   
      It was all fading faster now. He pushed against the encroaching memories with more force, willing them back to obscurity, back to rest with the one who witnessed them. 

      Mipha’s eyes filled his vision, seeking his out, shining serenely in the warm evening light. Her words came through clearer than the rest had, ringing like a bell through the din.   
      “...quite embarrassed...what I do when I'm...when ...It helps when I think about…” 

      Sorrow rose unbidden from the depths of his unconscious mind, shattering whatever small amount of control he had gained. Grief gave way just as quickly to fear as a whirlwind of images flew before him; black and crimson clouds in the distance, gathering in a roiling spiral above the castle. Hurried orders and desperate preparations. They didn't know that it would be the last time that they would see each other.   
      They didn't know that they would die. 

      A hollow emptiness consumed him, as deep and unfathomable as the void it rose from. There was darkness. And then there was nothing at all.   
  
  


      The return to his senses was a slow one, as it always was. Coming back to reality was not unlike waking up from a deep and troubling dream, the type that ensnared the mind completely while seeming to last a lifetime. Sensory information came to him in bursts as he tried to piece together where he was and what had happened. 

      He was cold. That was likely to be directly related to the fact that the sun had set hours ago and he was sprawled out on the ground without so much as a blanket to cover him. In fact, he seemed to be laying in the middle of the road.   
      Lovely. 

      He braced his palms on the ground and raised himself to a sitting position, blinking blearily as his vision came back into focus. His horse was about a dozen yards away, nosing at a barrel that likely contained an apple or two from the way he was focused on it.   
       _Idiot_ , he thought fondly. 

      He got to his feet and began to check through his belongings, ensuring that everything he needed was where it should be while trying to get his bearings on the situation.   
      What had happened? Had he died again? He couldn't remember the fight though; usually he could, and his body would be wracked with phantom pains from where the death blows had landed. His mind never seemed to forget the pains as quickly as his nerves did. He couldn't remember though… 

      He couldn't remember… 

      The Hylian groaned as realization set in. So it was the memories again.   
      He had always done his best to avoid them despite Impa’s guidance to the contrary. At one point he had attempted to remove all of the old photographs and data from the Sheikah Slate at his hip but it defied his intrusion, so he made a habit of studiously avoiding them. But despite his best efforts there were times when they could not be escaped, times when the slumbering hero awoke to force himself upon his consciousness. 

      He trembled with fatigue as he removed his stallion’s saddle and harness, slinging both over one shoulder as he made the short climb up to a comfortable looking ledge. He would be going no further tonight. 

      It didn't take long to kindle a fire and spread his bedroll. There was no fresh water to be found in the immediate area so he made due without his usual hygienic ritual. Normally he would have made the trek back to the reservoir he had passed before, but he was too exhausted to consider that now. He watched the flames of the campfire from where he lay, relishing the warmth as the heat worked its way into tired joints and muscles. This was familiar to him. This was home. 

      His thoughts wandered to that of the hero. It was undeniable that they were entirely different people. He had likely grown up with a home and family, soft mattresses and constant kinship. He had overheard a rumor about the hero’s father - that he was a knight in the service of the royal family. Could that be true? It was difficult to know for sure.   
      It seemed that there was a wealth of people that knew, or knew of the four champions. Statues and monuments were raised in their memory, their weapons and personal effects were safeguarded as previous heirlooms, yet so many barely knew his name. The hero, they called him. The Champion. A nameless, faceless figure, remembered only by his title. Did he have a family, once? Did they mourn his passing?  
      Somehow he felt that it wasn't the case. They would be long dead now, anyway. A hundred years was more time than the average Hylian body could endure. 

      But those were things for the hero to grieve. He had no home, no family. His birthplace was an abandoned shrine, his womb the liquid that entombed him. That was who he was. Not Link, not the young man who had prepared for the calamity at the side of the princess. That person had died with the rest of them a century ago.  
      Or so he wished. Unwanted incidents like today’s proved otherwise.  
      He couldn't help but wonder how long he would continue to be himself. Would the ancient hero rise one day, banishing him to the incorporeal prison he rested in now? Was he fated to become nothing more than a specter, fighting tooth and nail for small moments of coherence, watching as a foreign mind manipulated his body? 

      The Hylian sighed and closed his eyes, willing for slumber to come and give him dreamless reprieve from the thoughts that tormented him. Tomorrow was another day, his and his alone to forge into what he wished to make of it. 


End file.
